


Love Calls Like a Whistle

by suzerainty



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: But only good to Sherlock, John is Not Amused, M/M, Moriarty Is Good, Mrs. Hudson Ships It, Murder, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Quite Literally, Relationship(s), Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sherlock is Married to His Work, Sherlock is a Mess, Slash, jimlock, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-16
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-12-02 21:20:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11517702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suzerainty/pseuds/suzerainty
Summary: //pre-Reichenbach, post-Scandal in Belgravia.//'The detective's ennui has, in an exasperating fit of destruction, reached its zenith. Donovan's prophecy brings itself to the front of Sherlock's thoughts: one day, Scotland Yard's angel of a helper will get so bored that he himself commits a crime. The notion is tantalising; he can't help but consider it, a million schemes and methods of murder threatening to explode from their cell all at once.'





	Love Calls Like a Whistle

Pointing his gun at the tattered wall, Sherlock Holmes puffs out his cheeks slightly. His hands are unwavering as he pulls the trigger.

"Bored!" He cries, eyes fixated on the bullet as it penetrates the heavy atmosphere. He fails to notice the lack of reply from his trustworthy friend, Dr Watson, and some crevice of his consciousness assumes that there has been a doting answer. Sherlock usually finds John to be a distraction; a loyal one at that, but tonight he has escaped the dusty floors of 221B, leaving only a note behind. It informs that John is, unsurprisingly, on a date-- yes, he'll be home tonight,and no, he won't pick up nicotine patches on the way home. 

Although examining the freshly scattered bullet holes is thoroughly enticing (or it would be to the simple workers of Scotland Yard), the focus they provide is entirely temporary. Seconds later a million other thoughts thicken the air.

The detective's ennui has, in an exasperating fit of destruction, reached its zenith. Donovan's prophecy brings itself to the front of Sherlock's thoughts: one day, Scotland Yard's angel of a helper will get so bored that he himself commits a crime. The notion is tantalising; he can't help but consider it, a million schemes and methods of murder threatening to explode from their cell all at once.

With a forced grimace, Sherlock mutters:

"I'm not a sadist."

His reoccurring envision of tying Moriarty down with raw ropes and forcing a multitude of noises out of the criminal's slick mouth says otherwise. 

Almost of its own accord, Sherlock's slender hand reaches into his dressing gown pocket and emerges from the midnight blue fabric clasping a slim black phone. It's a simple design: no case and no screen protector, yet seemingly undamaged. If the detective were to deduce himself, he'd see the lack of protection as a sign of arrogance. He toys with the device for a moment, letting rough callouses glide over smooth metal, before unlocking it and quickly opening the small green icon labelled 'messages'. John is his most recent contact, closely followed by Mycroft (whose last message, predictably, was a tedious warning). Letting his strained eyes focus on the third name, Sherlock sucks in a breath.

James Moriarty. 

The seductive words, "miss me, sexy?", glare out from the screen, and Sherlock can almost hear the familiar Irish drawl melting in his ears. The message had been received more than two weeks ago, but only now, plagued with boredom, does the detective feel a burning desire to reply. He wants to coax Moriarty into 221B and make him dance. 

A chill runs down his spine. Slowly, he types out a reply, mulling over each word carefully and considering the insinuation each might give. 

**'Of course. Every addict needs their fix.'**

_Send._

Sherlock emits a deep sigh- one of both relief and impatience. Moriarty could take days-- weeks, even-- to reply, leaving his nemesis wallowing in a sea of nothing. 

All at once, scrambling hands reach into forbidden draws. In a drug fuelled haze, Sherlock sleeps.


End file.
